


Love and Other Secrets

by Microsaur



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Emotionally Crippled Erik Is Fun To Read, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Past Relationship(s), Period Appropriate Homophobia, Sordid Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microsaur/pseuds/Microsaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is a vampire that would much rather be left alone, Charles is a baronet that can't seem to accept that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the X-men Reverse Bang, and it is more than a little late now thanks to my terrible overestimation of my ability to transcribe and format things. So, a thousand and one apologies to avictoriangirl, who has been nothing but lovely and I'm so sorry.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank yous go of course to the moderaters, to avictoriangirl, to Slab Johnson for beta-ing, to nagasasu for emergency beta-ing, and to everyone in chat!
> 
> And everyone, take a look at this gorgeous art: http://avictoriangirl.livejournal.com/292842.html

London, England  
July 14th, 1851

 

The carriage wheels creaked as they slowed to a halt, spraying the gravel that had been displaced. Charles Xavier looked out from the enclosed landau to admire the people gathered for the very same purpose he and his cousin had: The Crystal Palace, glittering as the finest chandelier would in the sunlight. Charles found the building not only beautiful but massive, in both height and breadth, and the verdant scenery was little more than backdrop to its translucent panels and iron gridlines; too fragile to be called imposing but too stalwart to be called delicate.  
  
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Charles managed to tear his gaze away and focus on Raven seated across him, “An entire building made of glass. There isn’t a thing like it in the world, you know.” He donned his hat and brushed the shoulders of his vest to expunge wholly-imagined dust and wrinkles from the heavy black cloth.  
  
“You speak as though you’d built it yourself.” Raven’s tone was far from rebuking, and the curled smile toying at her lips made the mischievousness all the more apparent.  
  
Charles’ own lips formed a small grin, not necessarily sheepish, but carrying an entirely similar affectation.    
  
“Perhaps Shomron’s enthusiasm is catching,” he explained, and gracefully exited the carriage - paying a cursory nod to the footman and extending his arm for Raven, who accepted it out of genuine need rather than mere societal expectation. Back in their country estate she preferred simpler gowns and favored sensible shoes - or none at all. Charles was certain if it weren’t for his insistence she would dress much the same during their time in London, instead of the multitude of layers that was presently the fashion.  
  
He could not help but grin as she looked up and let awe spread over her features; her eyes widening and her mouth parting at the spectacle. The novelty, the absolute beauty and ingenuity of such an impossibly large edifice comprised of nothing but bits of metal and glass, still captivated Charles. And it was more than just the enormity of the thing, so much more than that. It was innovation - true British innovation . Doing something that had never before been done, and then sharing their success with the rest of the world. Glorious.  
  
“Wait until you see what’s inside,” a voice a few feet ahead and to the right interposed. Charles recognized it and halted his ruminations in favor of seeking out the familiar face of an old family friend.  
  
“Ah, Mr. Shomron! It is a pleasure to see you, as always,” said Charles as they closed the distance between, treading across grass and gravel.  
  
“I trust you are in good health, Sir Charles.” Shomron shook his hand and quickly dipped his head in polite apology to Raven, who returned the courtesy.  
  
“Most assuredly, and I do hope it is the same for you.”  
  
“On such an auspicious day as this my health is more than good.” And that much was apparent for Shomron seemed alive and glowing, which Charles felt he could assume had little to do with the fair and bright weather and rather a great deal to do with the success of the Crystal Palace.  
  
“Please, do join me inside,” said the older gentleman.  
  
Charles gave a nod and Shomron proceeded to lead them to a more private entryway, which involved more careful foot placement as they strode across grass and gravel. Raven’s arm remained looped in Charles’ as they walked and through that connection he could feel every uneven step as she struggled to maintain her balance in terribly foreign shoes. Sensing her frustration, he wisely refrained from comment.  
  
Once the three were inside, Charles had need again to marvel over the sheer magnitude of what Shomron, and British initiative, had accomplished. The Xavier estate could lay claim to numerous large windows, but they were not nearly so impressive as the walls of clear glass - single panes of glass that were his height and half again- through which he could see the rolling landscape of Hyde Park. The scene was only interrupted by the connective iron lattices, which to Charles was rather like staring out from an enormous trellis.  The juxtaposition of being indoors with a perfectly even floor beneath his feet and a stillness to the slightly- smoky air, however, ruined the garden-inspired comparison.  
  
“Is that a tree ?” asked Raven, voice tinged with excitement, and Charles’ attention flickered over to align with hers. The answer was yes, it was a great, solid oak residing just off of the main entrance where more people were pouring in by the minute, and yes, it was very much inside the building; the pellucid vaulting only a foot or two above the foliage.  
  
“My word,” Charles breathed.  
  
Shomron merely chuckled. “It is an inspiring sight. Now if I am not mistaken the ladies have gathered round the fountain should you care to join them, Miss Darkholme, while I show Sir Charles a few of the less delicate displays.”  
  
Charles knew his cousin well enough to sense her discomfiture at the implication something might offend her sensibilities, so he patted her hand gently. “I do believe that is Miss Kinross among them, would you be so kind as to give her my very best regards? And then we’ll return here for tea?”  
  
Raven’s face went through a series of mild contortions before she relented. “Of course, Charles.”  
  
He felt her arm slide through his own and watched as she fussed with her burgundy skirts to make her way over to the ornate fountain, where he had in fact spotted Moira Kinross, though the distance and the multitudes had made it difficult to ascertain.  
  
“I see things are the same between the pair of you,” observed Shomron and motioned for Charles to follow as he began to snake his way through the masses.  
  
“She is as a sister to me; I doubt my fondness towards her will ever change.” Charles assured, well-aware of how their closeness could be misconstrued. The circumstances between them were hardly matters of secrecy ; when the Darkholme seniors had been lost to illness Raven was left to the Xaviers, raised alongside Charles and later Cain Marko. That their relationship became liken to that of siblings could hardly be unexpected - or at least that was how Charles viewed the matter. His friends and acquaintances in London tended to feel somewhat differently.  
  
Together, Charles and Shomron moved through the cloistered throngs of people until they reached the desired exhibit, at which point the rationale behind Shomron’s dismissal of Raven became evident: The room was filled with various Grecian statues and artifacts  of both antiquity and a modern effort to recreate the Hellenistic aesthetic. Charles took to it as a bird would take to the skies.  
  
“I thought you might appreciate them,” said Shomron.  
  
Charles flashed a puckish smile and began exploring the area. He did possess a keen interest in the Greeks, which was also no secret. Athenians in particular captivated him; in fact, their pursuit of knowledge and understanding guided and shaped many of his personal mores, and may have had more than a hand in the development of certain proclivities that, were he ever to give voice to them, most of society would find disagreeable.  
  
“Extraordinary,” remarked Charles, “that such craftsmanship was possible all those years ago.”  
  
He circled one of the expertly carved marble statues, studying the intricate detailing of human musculature. The Grecian ideal, a broad defined upper body swelling into a firm backside held up by powerful thighs and calves. Observing the statues had always given Charles pause. The human form was beautiful, whether masculine or feminine, so why was he - and all of civilized society besides - to be limited in his appreciation?  
  
Shomron interrupted his musings with a murmured, “There’s an interesting fellow: Mr. Erik Lehnsherr, we have him to thank for the metal work, though I did hear he has since sold his plant to Bessemer.”  
  
Charles lifted his head and found the Erik Lehnsherr his friend referred to standing beside one of many painted vases. He was a tall figure, dressed in an overcoat despite the near oppressive summer heat.   
  
“I’ve not heard of him,” admitted Charles with notes of curiosity lending a lilt to his voice .  
  
“And I don’t suppose you would have, you were back in Oxford when he arrived. Why, it was only late February when he moved to London. A queer fellow, that one.”  
  
“Is that so?” Charles interest shifted from a subtle flute chime to a reverberating trumpet blast, piqued by not only Shomron’s words, but by the peculiar manner the gentlemen carried himself . The man seemed to be doing his utmost to obscure his features , adjusting the tilt of his hat and even brazenly covering his face with his hand. Gloved hands no less, in such stifling temperatures.  
  
“Yes,” said Shomron, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case and drawing one out, “ he moved from France, though he is no Frenchman. He bought a flat and a factory, only to sell the latter shortly thereafter. As far as I am aware he has no acquaintances here, and he certainly hasn’t gone out of his way to make them. I should say that makes him a rather strange fellow. ” He placed the cigarette his mouth and lit it, inhaling and then exhaling a plume of smoke.  
  
It did make Mr. Lehnsherr an unusual character, and Charles did so enjoy unraveling riddles.   
  
“I recognize that expression—Sir Charles, what are you trying to accomplish?” asked Shomron as Charles began weaving through statues and displays and other guests. It should have been obvious, really, considering the direction he was heading and the topic under discussion.  
  
“I’m going to introduce myself.”  
  
Shomron choked on the smoke he had been attempting to exhale, rendering him a spluttering mess of coughs and a barely articulate, “Introduce yourself ?”  
  
“You did say the man has no acquaintances. If that is the case, then I don’t have much choice in the matter!”  
  
Charles’ smile was boyish to accompany his jocular tone, though Shomron did not seem to appreciate either when he hastened after Charles and rounded on him. The knitted brows and slightly down-turned corners of his mouth were a clear indication that Shomron thought little of the disregard for proper decorum.   
  
“At least allow me; Mr. Lehnsherr and I were colleagues—of a sort.”  
  
Charles would grant his older friend that. Then he noticed Mr. Lehnsherr, a few strides away, abruptly lift his head in their direction. His gaze remained on them as they reached a more polite distance for conversation.   
  
At only a foot away and without the obstruction of the hat, Charles had a clear view of Erik Lehnsherr; everything from his strong, stubbled jaw line to the striking blue-green of his eyes. For a brief moment Charles’ thoughts turned to somewhat impure lamentations that the man was not dressed to match the surrounding statues, but only for a moment and then higher faculties returned.   
  
“Mr. Lehnsherr, Sir Charles Xavier would like to make your acquaintance.”  
  
Lehnsherr looked from Shomron to Charles and then, almost grudgingly, held out his hand without removing the black leather glove. Charles was not deterred in the slightest and shook it warmly.  If anything, Charles was more interested in the man. He had grown accustomed to receptions of a warmer variety; partly because of the Xavier wealth he had access to, and partly because of his comely appearance and amicable disposition.  
  
“A pleasure to meet you. Mr. Shomron tells me that the iron is of your supply?”  
  
“You as well, and it was,” answered Lehnsherr and he withdrew his hand. His accent was no more French than his features.  Instead it sounded - to Charles’ ear at least- a blend of several.  It was a lovely blend, though, and Charles felt he could stand to hear more. Unfortunately, before he could formulate further inquiry and coax another word out of the man, Shomron intervened.  
  
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Collins; I daresay you’ll enjoy one another’s company.”  
  
Shomron stepped between them and led the way towards another gentleman, one that Charles had met the previous summer. It wasn’t in Charles to outright refuse Shomron, so he did follow his friend, but he had every intention of returning to Lehnsherr the moment he was able to extricate himself. He turned and bowed his head in farewell, a gesture Lehnsherr mirrored.  
  
Navigating the less dense crowds made the walk a quick one, and their interaction with Collins was cordial. Handshakes and how-do-you-dos, followed by more unctuous words than Charles cared to hear, but he did his best to listen in spite of that. It was Charles’ further misfortune that Shomron was called upon by another acquaintance and subsequently left him alone in the company of the somewhat corpulent gentleman. Collins was a well-meaning fellow, but his conversational skills lacked and Charles found his interest waning. His line of sight continually drifted back to Lehnsherr, who had moved from the vases to the sculptures.  
  
Apparently, his observation had been unsubtle, for Collins turned to find what preoccupied him. “Ah,” Collins said softly, “Mr. Lehnsherr.”  
  
“You know him?” Charles asked, latching onto the potential for a conversation that would hold his attention.  
  
“Yes, we’ve spoken,” an undertone of disdain colored the words, “told me he didn’t want solicitors.”  
  
It took Charles a considerable effort not to smile, or laugh, and he thought he might like the strange gentleman a bit more. He opened his mouth to prompt Collins to speak further on the topic but found there was no such need.  
  
“I believe him to be the worst sort, a thief. See how he hides his face? What cause does a man have to do such a thing, other than to avoid being recognized? He claims he lived in France, but hear him speak and the falsehood is obvious.” Collins leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “I’ve heard a large sum has gone missing from the Austrian stores and Mr. Lehnsherr’s accent is rife with that harsh sound.”  
  
“That is something of a stretch,” Charles commented.  
  
Collins was hasty to convince him otherwise. “Not at all, for how else does one explain his wealth? Lehnsherr is not a name I recognize, and he has no trade to speak of.”  
  
“I thought he dealt in metal.”  
  
“That manufacturing plant? How did he afford it? A clever ruse is all that factory was. Steal the money, move to another country and pay for a factory. Now he can claim that his gains are simple profit from selling it. He shuts himself away, speaking to no one. A man doesn’t behave like that unless he has something to hide.” Collins had such a self-assured tone that Charles felt certain it wasn’t true. The dark haired gentleman was too proud of his own idea, and too prone to denigration to be taken for his word. Still, it was a curious thing.  
  
Without Charles’ realizing his gaze had fallen back to Lehnsherr, and shortly after he noticed his faux pas their eyes met. Charles extended a smile, but Lehnsherr’s expression remained stoic. Of all the similarities to statues for the man to take on, Charles thought ruefully.   
  
“Are there no such factories in France?” Charles asked. Innocently enough, but meant to discourage the conspiracy. Collins made a perturbed noise like that of a cough.    
  
“It still raises questions, how did he obtain the means in France? And what prompted him to move here?” The man persisted.  
  
“Why not ask him?” asked Charles, eliciting another perturbed noise. It was a fair question, he felt. Certainly less of an unkindness to ask a simple question than to spread the idea the man was a thief. But Collins was a man of habits, and his penchant for creating sensational news had to be among the worst.  
  
“I’ve told you, he won’t speak to a soul. Intensely private sort.”  
  
Charles very nearly smirked outright. He was well-aware of his own charm; surely his social graces could more than compensate for Lehnsherr’s alleged lack.  
  
“But, enough of him, I have another matter I wish to discuss...” Collins began and went on to describe an event he hoped Charles might sponsor. Dutifully Charles listened, smiling and nodding his head at appropriate times before giving Collins an excuse - and slipping away before the man could press for details. He nimbly picked his way through the spectators and displays until he joined Lehnsherr beside a statue of Hermes.  
  
“Won’t you be missed, Sir Charles?”  
  
It would seem Lehnsherr had witnessed much of the interaction, and Charles let a chuckle escape. “I should think not. Mr. Collins assumes he has a baronet’s ear, and he shall no doubt tell everyone that he spoke with me at length. It isn’t me that he gets on with, but my title. The perils of nobility, I suspect.”  
  
“Such hardships you endure.”  
  
Charles could not recall the last time he had been spoken to with anything less than sincerity from a stranger; it left him off-kilter, and he forced a humorless laugh. “My friend, suffering is relative; because I do not suffer the most does not mean that I do not suffer.”  
  
Lehnsherr scoffed, turning to look at him for the first time. “Do you honestly believe that people wanting your company is a form of suffering?”   
  
“No, it isn’t others desiring my company I find so distasteful, but the fact that it isn’t truly my company they desire at all. Besides, if what Mr. Shomron tells me is true, I believe you are ill-suited to speak on suffering another’s company.”   
  
That had Lehnsherr’s attention - and Charles felt his skin prickle under the man’s stare. It was severe and arresting, though not precisely harsh. Considering, scrutinizing possibly, however even that fell short of what those vivid eyes were conveying.   
  
“Looking at you I doubt you’ve suffered a day in your life. Tell me, have you ever wanted for anything? Is not your every need met, Sir Charles?”   
  
The words curled around him, and his heart felt inexplicably tight in his chest. The bitterness was near tangible and Charles was left to wonder who had had muddied Lehnsherr’s coat earlier in the day that the man should be stirred to agitation so swiftly. But, there was also a thrum of excitement. People were rarely so forthright; it reminded Charles of Raven, albeit vaguely, when she decried the role her gender was forced to accept.   
  
“Looking at you, I could say much the same, could I not?” Charles arched a brow .   
  
Something softened in Lehnsherr’s features.  It seemed he was also used to a certain reception, and to have his expectations defied perplexed him. Eventually the expression gave way to an upward quirk of the lips.   
  
“Trust me, I am not a man whose suffering you would wish to know,” he said and made to depart, though not before adding, “Go back to your friends, Sir Charles.”  
  
Charles had never been so thoroughly dismissed in his four and twenty years, and by someone of such ill-repute...    
  
“I’m hosting a party on the eighteenth!” Charles shouted after him in earnest. When the man paused, Charles felt confident in continuing. “Please, since you do not consider another’s company to be a form of suffering, say you’ll come.”   
  
Lehnsherr glanced over his shoulder, their gazes locked and a tautness returned to Charles’ chest, before the connection severed and Lehnsherr waded into the crowd without giving an answer.

**  
**

July 15th, 1851

**  
**

The hour was late, with only the half-moon and the scattered stars serving as sources of illumination. The glow cast by them was weak, enough to conjure ominous shadows against the bricks and wood of ramshackle homes competing with one another for space but little more. But neither the blackened sky nor the inconsistent shadows held Erik Lehnsherr’s attention; that rested solely on the broad-shouldered gentlemen clutching at the walls and sloshing mud around while humming an old sailor’s song - missing several key notes by a few pitches.  
  
If the acrid odor of alcohol on the ruddy-faced man had not convinced Erik of his state his stumbling would have. Erik gave a furtive glance and sniffed at the air. He saw no one but the man, and only the same smell that encompassed all of Cheapside filled his nostrils. It was a rank blend of wet refuse and byproduct of the factories; a vicious clash of human stench and artificial fetor. It was one he had grown accustomed to in his travels, and one he could dismiss so long as he refrained from inhaling too deeply.   
  
“Where is me bed? Me noggy, noggy… noggy b-ed ?” warbled the man, louder than before. Then Erik conceded he was no noisier - Erik had merely closed some of the distance between them without conscious decision. The smell of alcohol drowned the other scents, now. The man must have spilled some on his clothes; blood did not smell that strongly of drink while it remained inside the human body.  
  
“Oy! Wha’re ye doin’?” he asked as he whorled around. He keeled over shortly thereafter to retch. Erik grimaced, but said nothing as the man moved to prop himself up against the wall. He made a single feeble attempt to stand before sliding back down and staring at Erik with unfocused and half-lidded eyes. He swung his arm out and missed by a wide margin.  
  
“Who’re ye?”   
  
Erik remained silent as he knelt down next to the man, the opposite side of where he’d retched. At this distance he could smell the blood. Alcohol, iron, and slightly sour. It would not taste pleasant, but he had not chosen his victim for the pleasing flavor. He pinned the man to the wall, and turned his head to expose the neck. The man again asked what Erik was doing, and once again Erik remained silent. The less he spoke the less memorable he would be - or the less believable the man’s story would seem. To make a clean breast of it, the thought of speaking with his victims held little appeal; and so it was without a word that Erik extended his fangs and bit down.  
  
The flesh punctured easily, and after a tiny pained noise the man fell into a stupor. Blood welled up and Erik drank it, forcing himself to ignore the foulness of the undernourished and boozy tang.    
  
Sometimes he wondered if the difference in taste between men like this and men more like the young baronet was as vast as it seemed to be between their scents. Sir Charles had smelled both sweet and savory - a bit strange, but pleasant all the same.  
  
Erik finished, having consumed enough to sustain himself and no more. He licked his thumb and smeared saliva over the wound; to his satisfaction it healed, leaving not even a mild discoloration. The man remained still and Erik situated himself directly across, stared the man in the eye and concentrated.  
  
“Forget me.” said Erik, willing the man to submerge the memory. He grimaced when the man didn’t acknowledge the command. Nearly fifty years and still some aspects of his condition were not under his control. With no small measure of disgust Erik straightened to a stand, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and ensuring not a drop of blood went to waste.  
  
Another human would find the man in the morning hours, and perhaps he would remember and recount everything and perhaps he would not. Erik doubted anyone would believe the ramblings of a man who had clearly imbibed too much drink the previous night. The precise reason he had been chosen.   
  
Erik spared one last glance, and then silently walked away. Being freshly feed meant his senses were sharper, and the rancor of Cheapside was all at once upon him. The smell of too many people in too small an area leaving it rank with sweat and mud while perfumed by smoke and smog. Erik held an empathy for them and their plight, truly, however he also held a desire to continue his existence. It was an unfortunate truth that his existence entailed such doings.  
  
Erik moved swiftly, the cloying odor of the slums lingering in the weave of his clothes while the air around him cleared. He thought again of the baronet, lamenting the fact that his scent was not so pervasive while ultimately being thankful for the very same because it would surely drive him to distraction. Sir Charles had been a curious thing, sporting the same veneer as many of the social elite though very aware and even resentful of the charade.  
  
Erik considered that as the shambles of the slums gave way to the bourgeois structures that lined the majority of Cheapside. Larger and sturdier due to better materials and craftsmanship that the poor could not hope to afford. His thoughts grew less kind with it. A curious thing, yes, but nothing about him suggested Sir Charles was more than a pampered socialite entirely too conscious of his appearance.  
  
The grime was well behind, but Erik could feel it on his skin, in the fresh blood coursing through him. It should have been the baronet’s blood, not some poor sod barely able to care for himself. It should have been Sir Charles’ smug countenance reduced to one of stupefaction...  
  
He caught himself, cutting the thread of thought before it unspooled. There was no cause for this preoccupation with the young man; other than, perhaps, Erik had gone unsatisfied in a number of ways and Sir Charles had an exquisite scent. Were they to meet again his interest would not be so consumed.  
  
Erik was certain of that, and could prove it to himself should he feel inclined.


	2. Chapter Two

July 18th 1851  
  


“Another of those incidents,” said one of Shomron’s acquaintances, one of the Worthingtons, if Charles remembered correctly. It was with some bemusement and curiosity that Charles looked up from the silver tray of hors d’oeuvres to the aging gentleman seated beside him.  
  
“Incidents?”  
  
Worthington bobbed his graying head as he reached for one of the cucumber sandwiches. The table had been laden with food, but after several hours of guests grazing there remained only scattered cheese slices, some overripe fruit and, of course, the fresh sandwiches very recently brought out.  
  
“You’ve not heard, Sir Charles?” he asked before comprehension coated his round features and he went on to say, “Pardon me, I do forget your residence in the country, but it has been talk here in London over the months.” Worthington leaned in closer and let his gaze wander over to the other guests, each of them rising from the dark wood table and leaving to join the ladies in Charles’ parlor --creating far more din than one might expect for six people. Charles’ interest was naturally piqued that Worthington felt he must concern himself with being overheard.  
  
“Assaults in the streets of Cheapside, nothing so unusual amongst that lot mind you, but some of these men claim that a man, tall as a horse, drained them of their vital fluids.”  
  
Charles smiled, unmindful of the severity in Worthington’s tone, and the face he made must have betrayed him further still for Worthington blustered, “I shared those same sentiments, but scarcely three nights ago an Irish sailor was found, pale as the linen he wore, and weaving the same tale as the locals.”  
  
“I heard the man had consumed more than his share of drink.”  
  
Charles perked at the unmistakable low rumble of vowels and affected consonants that he’d found so appealing only days ago, and it was to his delight that he turned to find their owner dressed in the same overcoat, --which had hopefully gone unsullied today-- in the rounded archway connecting his dining room to the hall.  
  
“Mr. Lehnsherr, you decided to come,” he enthused, unable to quell his grin, though he would admit to not giving the task much effort. He had spent much of the afternoon reminding himself the man had no reason to make an appearance, and more likely than not wouldn’t bother to do so.  
  
Lehnsherr inclined his head and said, “I do apologize for the hour.”  
  
“You needn’t bother, I am glad to see you at all. Please join us,” said Charles, waving Lehnsherr’s concern aside and motioning for him to step into the room. It was then that Charles remembered Worthington with a mild degree of embarrassment for the oversight.  
  
“Mr. Worthington, this is Mr. Lehnsherr,” he said in an attempt to recover. The two shook hands perfunctorily, and Charles noticed the gloves were absent and that Lehnsherr’s hands were quite lovely. Large, but slender for their size giving an impression of both strength and deftness at once.  
  
“Mr. Worthington and I were discussing the incidents in Cheapside, though if what you’ve heard is true then that rather solves the mystery, doesn’t it? If the residents are telling stories it can scarcely be so bewildering that after a few too many glasses a sailor might find himself imagining a similar encounter. Though, I do wonder how such stories start.”  
  
“Hm, yes,” said Worthington, “the origin is probably equally droll, but it is an entertaining story nonetheless.”  
  
He seemed ruffled that his tale had been cut short and thoroughly rebuffed, so Charles  was hardly surprised when the older gentleman departed for the parlor at his wife’s beckoning. He _was_ surprised when Lehnsherr took the seat and hung his coat over the elaborately carved back of the chair.  
  
“So, have you heard anything else about these ‘incidents’?” asked Charles, masking his astonishment and biting into the food. His eyes remained on Lehnsherr, and Lehnsherr’s were similarly on him - but where Charles’ brimmed with earnestness Lehnsherr’s reflected only disinterest.  
  
“The man was inebriated, what else is there to know?”  
  
Charles hummed thoughtfully, and polished off the sandwich; relishing in the familiar taste of cucumber and butter for a moment before acceding. “I suppose there tends to be a degree of embellishment to such happenings. I am glad to hear a succinct opinion on the matter, it is a rare find, my friend.”  
  
Lehnsherr’s gaze felt heavier upon him, and the same contemplative expression that he had worn in the Grecian gallery adorned his strong features now. Charles adjusted his high collar.  
  
“Might I inquire something, Mr. Lehnsherr?”  
  
“If you like.”  
  
“Pardon me for reciting rumor, but, you came over from France, correct?”  
  
“That is true,” said Lehnsherr, “though I suppose you mean to ask why I am not French.”  
  
Charles’ smile faded into one of contriteness and he feigned interest in the scarce fare left behind. Perhaps he was not as indirect in his inquiry as he had deemed himself to be.  
  
“You would suppose correctly. I do hope I have not created an offense,” said Charles, and he resolved to be more frank in his dealings with Lehnsherr for he did admire the trait in the older gentleman.  
  
“I had not thought you concerned with offending me, considering our previous conversation.”  
  
Charles would have worried had Lehnsherr’s grin been an ounce less sly, and his tone couched in anything other than amusement.  
  
“Ah, but you paid me slight first, do not lay the blame at my feet for an offense you provoked.”  
  
Charles quickly realized that any attempt to contain his own gladness would prove in vain for his lips pulled into a matching grin of their own accord and only widened when Lehnsherr began to laugh.  
  
“Perhaps I owe you an answer then,” said Lehnsherr as his laughter quieted, “before I lived in France, I lived in Bavaria.”  
  
“I think I require further candor before I forgive your slight.” It was with some satisfaction that Charles noted his assertion seemed to have both surprised and impressed Lehnsherr, if the subtly raised brows were an indication. Charles continued, “How did you come to own the iron plant?”  
  
Lehnsherr answered quickly, giving Charles the distinct impression he was reciting it by rote, “With difficulty. I owned a small facility in France and was eventually able to sell it for enough to purchase the one here.”  
  
“If it was with such difficulty that you acquired the factory, why then did you part with it?”  
  
“Because steel is the metal of choice these days.”  
  
The response made sense, Charles supposed. Truthfully he knew very little of industry, but Bessemer and his steel was a subject that came about often.  Something of his consideration must have shown on his face, for Lehnsherr went on to ask, in an accusatory tone: “Does that not satisfy you?”  
  
“Does it bother you to be asked?” was his rejoinder.  
  
“My personal affairs are that: personal. A man’s business should be his own.”  
  
A chance to discuss philosophy was a chance Charles rarely passed on, and he had a strong feeling that Lehnsherr would be a new sort of opponent. One that would state his opinion open and plainly, rather than try to ingratiate himself by agreeing whenever Charles suggested something to the contrary.  
  
“Are we not all accountable to one another? Society is what allows for civilization, by making a man answerable to his actions.”  
  
“And who decides what is just, Sir Charles? If we cannot answer to ourselves, what makes another more fitting? ”  
  
The rebuttal was quick, and more impassioned than Charles had heard from Lehnsherr previously. The man’s eyes glittered a pale green edging very near to blue, and it was nothing short of captivating, even in the capricious candlelight.  
  
“It is not a single person, but society as a whole decides that what best suits it. Man has learned to count on his fellows in order to survive, and learned that certain behaviors must be culled to ensure group survival and as a result we have the laws with which we use to govern.”

  
“You believe all laws to be just?”  
  


Charles licked his lips before he spoke again, conceding, “…No. I do, however, believe there once may have been cause and that as circumstances change and progress the law may not reflect such changes immediately.”  
  


He knew what he was skirting around, but was unsure if Lehnsherr meant the same. He dearly hoped they might be speaking to the same injustice, which was precisely the reason he was rendered so unsure. He feared that he was perhaps levying too much of his own belief onto Lehnsherr’s simple question. It was a tricky business to discuss the issue when even the implication could lead to an inquiry. Charles felt it ridiculous that an act that hurt no one, by any stretch of the imagination, could be considered so heinous a crime that death was deserved.  
  


“If society cannot adapt to changes, why should it rule us?” asked Lehnsherr, drawing Charles from his musings. Again, the question was vague and allowed for little extrapolation.  
  


“It _can_ change,” insisted Charles, “it only takes time and… proof that the law is obsolete.”  
  


“Which cannot happen because in proving a law obsolete, you would first have to break it.”  
  


That sent a shiver through him, along with a series of lewd thoughts in which he imagined himself telling Lehnsherr they could break as many laws as he liked, wherever he liked. He licked his lips and tried to corral his thoughts into some semblance of order, for he was truly enjoying the philosophical exercise. It was just his misfortune that Lehnsherr happened to be both very attractive, very intelligent and entirely too interesting.

“And what do you suggest? Abolish law and subscribe to anarchism, isolated from all company?”

“Perhaps not all,” murmured Lehnsherr, quiet enough that had Charles not been so attuned to him the comment would have passed unnoticed. Charles could not prevent a flutter of excitement in his chest, but he did manage to stave off the proposal on his tongue that they leave for his estate, secluded as it was, and try a fortnight or two of anarchy.

“Anarchy is not the answer and isolation impossible. My only proposal is that people leave the things that do not concern them alone. Do you not grow tired of it? Of these gatherings in which you do nothing but speak ill of those not present?”

The vitriol that dripped from Lehnsherr’s voice had Charles sitting straighter in his chair.

“Why did you come then, if you find it so distasteful?” he asked.

The muscles in Lehnsherr’s jaw bunched and his lips thinned, leaving Charles to wait while he seemed to mull over the answer. Though now Charles curiosity ran more genuine than defensive.

“To prove a point.”

Charles knitted his brow and parted his mouth to speak well before he had fully formed the words in his mind. He cast about for them a moment longer, and then ventured, “That being in the company of others is not suffering?”

Lehnsherr gave the barest twitch of lips, a slight upward pull to the right that allowed a hint of white teeth. Charles determined it was a yes.

“Then, suffice to say the point remains unproven for as it stands you have shown little but disdain.”

His assertion prompted another laugh, not as hearty as the first, but still very comely on Lehnsherr’s defined features.

“And as you were the one to claim that suffering another’s company was an apt description, I do wonder how it came to pass that you play host to such gatherings.”

“Because it is not without its joys. I, for one, have had a most scintillating conversation.”

“Is that so?”

Charles could not resist the urge to tease, and affected the most serious of tones. “Indeed. I’ve very recently learned the Mr. Collins has finally switched tobaccos after much deliberation.”

“I see, and how long did that conversation last?”

Charles let the charade drop, his expression pinching into one of exaggerated distress. “A great deal longer than should have been _possible_.”

“I’d no idea, Sir Charles. You have my sympathies.” Lehnsherr responded, eliciting a laugh from Charles. And their conversation carried on, much like that. Winding and wending from this subject to that as the candle wax melted and dripped into the basin. The other guests retired, and still their exchange did not waver.

Charles could not ever recall being so singularly engaged, and something in the way Lehnsherr began to gesticulate as he spoke told Charles the older gentlemen felt the same.

**\---  
**

Sir Charles invited him to more dinner parties and gatherings in the following weeks and Erik found himself attending each, allowing the other man to stick to his side as a burr. Not that he could, in any way, claim the hours spent together were unpleasant ones. It could have been any number of reasons, perhaps that after years spent on his own he craved stimulation, or perhaps it was that Sir Charles was in the possession of a sharp wit and a communicable good-humor.

Erik knew himself to be taken with the baronet when he began to find Sir Charles’ youthful arrogance more endearing than appalling. He could not say precisely when it occurred, but he certainly could not deny the intimacy that had sprouted between them as they whiled away the days with talk on every conceivable subject, at times finding themselves in perfect accordance and at others entirely divergent.

Erik had even called on Sir Charles, and any chastisement he wished to upbraid himself with fell away when confronted by Sir Charles’ absolute delight. The brightness in his soft eyes and warmth in his easy smile pulled at Erik in ways he hadn’t felt in over half a century. And it was no small part of him that enjoyed how effortlessly he could monopolize Sir Charles’ time, and how quickly he gained familiarity with his friend’s sitting-room and his ivory chess set.

Therefore, it was with dread that he woke early on the morning of August the twelfth to met with Sir Charles -- and Miss Darkholme, though he was not so similarly attached to her, pleasant as she was -- only to say his farewell and watch their train leave the station.

A blandness settled over him, persisting into the following day and the one after that, and then the next, and he was only stirred to agitation when there came a harsh knock on the wooden door several hours before he was due to wake.

He contemplated ignoring the insistent rap, but his ears caught the sound of his mail slot opening and the rustle of paper sliding through and his curiosity was pricked. With a great dearth of poise and grace he drew himself out of bed, cursing the mid-morning hours as he padded through the halls to the foyer. There he found a singular letter on the floor which he stooped to retrieve.

It was not a large missive, but the envelop was thicker than most parchment. Erik looked over the script, noting there was a vague familiarity about the shape of the lettering but he found it an exercise in futility to determine the sender from the calligraphy alone. He turned it over as he made for his study, breaking the grey seal carefully.

__

_Dear Mr. Lehnsherr,_ the letter began.

I have written to assure you that I arrived back at Oxford without incident and to ask if you have, by any chance, read the latest of Richard Cobden? I would be rather fascinated to hear your thoughts, though I do believe I might guess at them.

Pawn to H-3.

Best Regards,  
 _Charles Xavier_

__

Erik smiled to himself, and quickly went in search of his chessboard. He brought it back into his study, finding a place for it in the corner of his large desk. He slid the white pawn forward, and then made his own move before settling in his seat to write his thoughts on Cobden.

The smile did not waver.

April 2nd, 1852

Charles could not have been more pleased to see Lehnsherr again, even if it was half-past six. He felt he could forgo supping a while longer as he ushered the man in and lead the way to his sitting-room. The servants bustled about to re-light the room, and quietly slipped out to attend to other matters around the house. Charles had only arrived that afternoon, he’d no doubt that his staff would be occupied for the remainder of the evening.

Lehnsherr seated himself in the armchair nearest the hearth. The same one, Charles noticed, he had seen fit to commandeer during his previous visits. Charles could hardly say he minded, in fact, he rather liked that they had a customary seating arrangement and he contently sat in the chair adjacent to Lehnsherr.

“Miss Kinross informed me in her letters that these attacks in Cheapside are still on-going. Do you still think it the ramblings of drunkards?” he asked. Kinross was a sensible woman, not prone to the histrionics that some were predisposed, and he trusted her word. He still wished to hear Lehnsherr’s opinion, for of all the topics they had exhausted in the months between the man had not once brought up the issue.

“Ah, in her letters,” muttered Lehnsherr, and something akin to unhappy confusion crossed his features before his mouth and brow shifted in quiet disappointment. Charles tried to ponder the meaning of that reaction, hope unfurling itself, but then Lehnsherr went on to provide an answer to his original question.

“If not inebriated persons, then ones caught up in the excitement. I have yet to hear of evidence that lends support to their claims.”

Charles hummed thoughtfully, and for a brief time silence lapsed over them. The hearth crackled, the flames contained therein flickered in a fast-paced dance. It had been warm enough in the afternoon, and it was not terribly cold presently, but the illumination was worth the expense of kindling.

“What was that penny dreadful? Varney the Vampire?” asked Charles, and out of the corner of his eye he sighted Lehnsherr’s incredulity; as plain on his face as any of his strong features.

“Do you think it the work of Varney, then?”

Charles let out a chuckle. “Not so much Varney, but, why couldn’t it be a vampire? Science is always on the verge of new discoveries, and if you trace back through history the allusions to vampires and vampire-like beings is rather prevalent.”

He would admit to being a tad swept up by the strange reports, and in the months back at Oxford he had scoured his ancestral library for whatever lore was to be found. “The Greeks have Vrykolakas, and the Romanians make mention of a being that drains blood. I very much doubt the supernatural elements, but perhaps there is some truth in them yet.”

“Hm.”

And everything in Lehnsherr’s bearing suggested he had no wish to continue the discussion so Charles let the matter drop. He could discuss it with his other callers tomorrow.

“Would you be interested in joining me for dinner? Raven  went out with the McCoys and I’ve not eaten yet.”

“It would be my pleasure,” answered Lehnsherr. His ill-humor vanished as quickly as it had fallen on him.

July 24th, 1852

  
A knock upon the door, considerably louder than the patter of rain,  surprised Charles as his eyes swept from his cluttered desk to his butler rising to answer it. A quick glance to his watch informed him that the hour was even later than he had surmised, edging very near to midnight which would explain why the flame of his lantern had waned to a faint flickering one. Voices could be heard, faintly, first Halward’s thin and raspy tones and then a wondrous and familiar accent.

Charles wasted no time; launching himself from his seat and snatching his lantern, unmindful of his state: rolled up sleeves and hair beyond mussed from where he’d pushed it off his brow only for it invade his line of sight again as he hunched over his papers.

He reached the foyer in time to catch a portion of his butler’s polite refusal.

“—late, Master Charles--,”

“It’s quite all right,” interjected Charles, his eyes fixated on a drenched Lehnsherr even as he requested a towel from his butler, who was swift to depart and light the sconces as he disappeared further into the house.

“Do come in.” Charles said when no such move had been made. Though at least the extended gable prevented further assault from the rain.

Lehnsherr dipped his head and stepped over the threshold with a squelch of wet boots. He seemed to take in the sight of Charles, but if he were to give comment Charles was prepared to meet it with a quip about the man’s own unkempt state: his clothes several shades darker than their make and drops of water rolling off him and onto the polished floorboards and with days worth of stubble around his mouth and chin. Lehnsherr made no comment, however, and curiosity was quick to get the better of Charles.

“I know your feelings on privacy…” was attempted at the same time as a clumsy thanks was issued for granting asylum from the downpour. Though the question of what devil had possessed Lehnsherr to be out so late remained.

“Perhaps a change of clothes is called for, sir?” asked Halward, towel in hand.

“If you would be so kind,” said Lehnsherr as he accepted the offered towel and did his best to dry himself.

Charles bobbed his head, and he allowed his embarrassment to color his words, hopeful that it might impress upon Halward his apologies, “Allow me? I’ve kept you quite long enough.”   
Halward lost the tenseness in his posture and his eyes closed briefly. “As you wish, Sir Charles,” he said, tinted with a sense that this had been long overdue, before taking his leave.

With that matter settled, Charles beckoned Lehnsherr with a soft touch just below the shoulder; as swift to drop as it had been to come; Charles fervently hoped it was not found unwelcome. He led Mr. Lehnsherr down the narrow hallways – one of several flaws Charles was particularly cognizant of in city homes -  passed the parlor and the study, up the staircase  and at last reaching the guest bedrooms.

He gave Mr. Lehnsherr the more Spartan room, assuming it would be more to his taste than the florid patterning of the other rooms. Raven had been the one to decorate them and Charles would admit that her ability to transform a room was truly a gift. No two rooms looked alike, but there was still a cohesion that Charles could neither pin down nor deny. Perhaps it was something in the color pallet, or perhaps it was in the shape and arrangement of the furnishings.

“I shall return shortly,” said Charles and he turned back to the door, leaving the guest bedrooms behind to retrieve the necessary articles of clothing.  

The longer he pondered the more consumed with the mystery of what reason had Lehnsherr out at such an hour Charles became, until he realized his speculations were of the same ilk that he had decried. He put the concern out of mind as he gathered the final article – dark trousers – and with haste returned to his unannounced guest, nudging the heavy door open with his shoulder.

“I cannot promise the best fit, but I assure you it will preserve your modesty,” Charles said, taking several steps into the room and placing the attire atop the bedding.

“You have my gratitude,” said Lehnsherr and Charles hurried from the room. He lingered in the hall and listened to sounds wet fabric shucked off and the rustle of dry ones replacing them.

Lehnsherr entered the hall, and Charles felt a smile form. To say the clothes were ill-fitted would be to say that McCoy was reserved. The trousers were, perhaps, the worst offense; the hem too short and wider in places than need be. Though the rain-slicked hair did little to help Lehnsherr’s image, what with the way some pieces lay flat and others pointed and curved in peculiar directions.   
“I see you chose your words carefully, for this does not preserve my _dignity_.”

The laugh produced by Charles was similarly undignified, though it was cut short when a thunderclap rattled through the house filling it with the delicate clinking of glass and the dull thumps of wooden furnishings.

“That sounds dreadful, has it been so all night?” His question was more than tinged with incredulity, for Charles knew he was prone to absorption when it came to his studies but he was far from completely unawares.

Lehnsherr shook his head once, to Charles’ great relief, and an unspoken understanding was reached. Such inclement weather was not suitable for travel, least of all on foot.

“Would you care for a game of chess?”

Lehnsherr’s grin was answer enough, and Charles led the way to his drawing-room. He crossed the expanse - setting mounted sconces alight as he passed them - to settle in the cushioned chair, the cream colored padding sinking under his weight while Lehnsherr took the matching seat across the perpetually set chess table. The pieces had been jostled by the thunder, but after a moment of Charles righting them the game was underway.

Charles made the first move, deviating from his usual strategy and boldly moving the pawn in front of his knight two forward.

“If I win this game, will you tell me what had you out at this hour?”

Lehnsherr’s eyes flicked from him to the board and he moved his knight, already poised to capture the pawn should Charles leave it. He leaned back into the chair, his long legs spread apart on either side of the small rounded table.

“Unlikely.”

True to form his friend refrained from claiming the pawn, in place sliding one of his own forward.

“Then I see your feelings on privacy are unchanged.” Charles punctuated his words with the heavy placement of his knight, the ivory clacking against polished marble. He could not help that when his eyes ventured upwards they lingered, perhaps inappropriately.

Lehnsherr pushed another pawn forward.

“I maintain a man’s business is his own until he decides otherwise.”

The pursing of his lips was an unconscious movement as Charles considered the finality of Lehnsherr’s statement. He could not deny the idea its merits, he knew his own proclivities could benefit from such a philosophy, but he could not abide it as a generality. He pondered over his words carefully while his gaze shifted to the pieces scattered about the board. He moved his bishop.

“I find that in certain circumstances I am inclined to agree, but I do not believe in the total abandonment of public involvement. Should there be an act of violent nature, or one of larceny, how can you say it is not the business of the people to find and prosecute the criminal?”

“And if no one is paid lasting injury, or lacking in properties? What then, Sir Charles? What business is it to the people how men occupy themselves in their homes? Men such as you or I, are we constrained to tell everything even if we cause no harm to another?”

At once his sight alighted on Lehnsherr, and he felt himself swallow though he hoped it went undetected. A hollow hope considering the numerous lit fixtures and that Lehnsherr’s focus rested solely upon him, the lines of his torso parallel to his own and Charles keenly aware that should he move his leg he could very easily brush against Lehnsherr’s and convincingly claim it as accidental in nature.

His mind turned over the myriad of possibilities that Lehnsherr might have to pay him a visit so late in the evening and his heart grew taut; seizing in his breast. Could it be that the temptations that plagued him were shared?

“...I suppose such a thing could be left a secret, if, as you say, there was no permanent injury and nothing taken that wasn’t freely given.” And Charles was pleased the delivery was even, and low enough as to be a whisper without precisely being one.

Lehnsherr startled. “You agree with me?”

 “Is it so hard to believe our interests might... intersect? What two men do with one another is their business.” Charles knew the danger that lie in declaring his interest openly, but he thought he might find that Lehnsherr returned the interest, so he pressed his leg to the inside of Lehnsherr’s and let his smile grow sly.

Horror distorted Lehnsherr’s features and there was absolute stillness before he spoke. “I... I must go,” said he, springing from the armchair and crossing the room before Charles could remove himself from his own seat.

Charles hastened after the man only to catch glimpse of the front entrance closing, rattling from the force with which Lehnsherr had slammed it. He pulled on latch with desperation and found no trace of Lehnsherr’s figure in the fogged downpour.

“Mr. Lehnsherr!” shouted Charles, “Mr. Lehnsherr!” His voice lost to sheets of rain hitting pavement and rooftops.

He waited for some minutes in the dark, until the moisture in the air collected on his skin and settled into his bones in spite of the overhead covering. Cold and disparaged he returned inside, with every affliction associated with the agues on him. Pallid and trembling he moved through the halls, easily mistaken for some phantasmagorical creature.  

It was not rejection that pained him, though he was not entirely free of that brand of agony, but that he might find his total ruin. His life forfeit to the courts, and if they were magnanimous enough to spare his life his societal standing would ensure he knew none of the comforts he had heretofore been accustomed and reliant upon. Shame and distress set upon him, bearing down on his chest and compressing it.

And by the Heavens-- _Raven!_

He cursed his rashness, how feckless he had been! If he fell, Raven would tumble after, for she had no standing but that which he gave her. He had ruined them both, his heart lodged in his throat and he leaned against the wall heavily.

He tilted his head back, let out one shuddering breath and then another until he settled himself. He was not ruined. Lehnsherr had not threatened him, nor made promise to turn him over to the officials of Scotland Yard, and even if he should, the Xavier name held more weight. His proposition had blessedly been spoken and not written. There existed no evidence of his indiscretion.

His only loss was that of a dear friend, and so he let that ache carve its place in his heart.

 

 


	3. Chapter Three

The days that followed were not ones Erik would have dared to call well-spent, for an inordinate amount of time was passed with him lashing internally at himself. He was greatly disturbed that he could so effortlessly enthrall Charles, a man he considered his closest friend. How twisted a character, how depraved a soul was he that he could inflict his desires on another and will them to be returned?  
  


Erik had made a solitary journey to Charles's residence, only days after the rain had dried, but he arrived only in time to see Charles departing from his home with Miss Darkholme. He had smiled handsomely at her, making his profile visible, and Erik had quite lost his nerve. If Charles saw him, Erik did not know for he left swiftly and made no subsequent attempts.  
  


Instead, he imposed an isolation on himself, one that spanned the rest of Charles stay in the city though his nocturnal ventures never varied. Still he knew himself to be languishing, his books no longer held his attention, the news could not stir him. A decay of the soul, was a phrase he recalled hearing and at once he found it applicable whereas before it had held no meaning to him. But he could not go to Charles for fear that he might again alter Charles’ behaviors to suit him.  
  


It was a less than a week after Charles left for his ancestral estate that Erik resolved to remedy the matter, no longer able to stand the hateful dread that twinged at something inside him. He had hope that with a letter he could trust any response garnered from Charles would be an honest one.  
  


So, he sequestered himself in his study with ink and pen and carefully began composing his message. He sat behind his ornately carved desk, surrounded by his latest readings-- which consisted almost exclusively of Charles’ many recommendations-- and scribbled notes of his in-exhaustive thoughts on them, and he realized he knew not where to start.

 

For one, he could not apologize for what he had done, for imposing his will, his desires. How could he when Charles had no reason to believe his claims? For another, he could not in good conscience, write to say he forgave Charles. What Charles had proposed had come from Erik; it had been his desire. Before, the feeling had been deeply buried now it threatened to burst from the soil that had sheltered it from discovery.

 

And he certainly could not write what he most ardently desired; to inform Charles that he harbored a great many secrets and he would gladly harbor this far more pleasant one.

 

Erik made several attempts, had written an inexorable number of apologies for his unannounced arrival and his frightful departure, but each was scratched out and tossed aside until the amount of wasted parchment exceeded his stores. On his third evening’s efforts he resorted to paying no acknowledgement of the events on that rainy night. He wrote as though nothing untoward had transpired between them, and as though he had not been out of contact for well over a month with no indication of what had constrained him so.

 

What his correspondence did consist of was the latest publishing he had read that might have interested Charles; the one on the geographical distribution of mollusca. His letter consisted of inane subjects like the weather, and Erik barely kept himself from writing how he missed summer since Charles left with it. A terribly soppy thing was he when the fear of loss beset him, when he felt deprivation after given feast. There was perhaps no worse thing than a parched man given a sip of water and then denied more.

 

He hesitated when confronted with the need for a signature, and at last decided to finish the letter with, “ever you friend, Erik Lehnsherr” in the hopes that Charles would be able to tell he meant it genuinely.

 

Erik ordered a cab and delivered the enclosed letter to the post, and then he waited out the ceaseless days in a new kind of agony. One flanked by fresh anxiety and protracted desperation.  
On the twenty-ninth of August a correspondence arrived addressed from Oxford and with hands plagued with tremors he accepted it, turning it over with heart in mouth. The commissionaire had scarcely left before Erik broke the gray seal of the envelope; the color of the wax had already given him a small measure of hope. He began to read it, there in the foyer, eyes scouring over the words:  
  


Dear Mr. Lehnsherr,  
  
You paint me in a fine light if you do not believe I have already read and re-read Thomas Bland’s work. I may do considerably more entertaining than you find tolerable, but I assure you I am more than capable of managing my time. I am glad, however, to have sparked your interest on the subject, you shall have to share your thoughts on it. Though I daresay that you hardly require my permission since you have never before had issue or qualm with expressing your thoughts...

 

Erik began to laugh, the solemness that had threaten to crush him with its weight crumbled into nothing more dust to be carried on the wind. Having been heartened by the tongue-in-cheek start, as characteristic of Charles’ writings as it was of his person, Erik found himself able to retire to his study to finish it. He then quickly set himself on the task of a reply, far less arduous than his previous missive.

He was absurdly pleased at the prospect of spending the year in the same way he had spent the preceding one: composing letters that ranged from superficial to highly philosophical-- and chess moves in between.

June 6th, 1853

“Are you certain this is the address?” asked Charles. Erik had similar reservations for the house they stood before was not remarkable in the least. It had the same Georgian roofs of any number of homes, it was neither exceptionally cheery nor exceptionally dreary. The stones were the same shade of grey as the surrounding houses, and door was the same lacquered black.

“You’ve not been before?” ask McCoy as though the very notion were inconceivable. Erik would have dismissed the reaction had Miss Darkholme not borne a matching expression. He exchanged glances with Charles and found his friend unexpectedly stymied.

“I’ve not, have you?”

“Yes,” McCoy answered quickly, “nearly everyone has.”

“Raven?”

“I went with the Abernathys, and with Lady Tessa.”

Erik puzzled over that, for it was strange. Considering Charles’ adventurous spirit and his high status it seemed he would be among the first invited out to such a thing. Well before McCoy at the very least.

“Then I suppose this must be the place. Shall we head up?” asked Charles, seemingly unbothered, but Erik detected the slight strain in his voice. The man would worry over not being invited somewhere, it was a type of vanity Erik mused.

Charles moved past them and up the stone steps, worn with both use and weather. Erik followed, joined by Miss Darkholme and McCoy. Charles gave a polite rap on the door and after a brief interval they were ushered in by a footman.

The interior was sparsely lit and the footman carried a candelabra rather than a lantern. The floorboards were faded and creaked with each step with no carpet to muffle to sound. The smell of burnt spices hung in the air, but it was not enough to mask the musty odor which permeates most older residences.

At last their guide ushered them into a spacious room with a table as the only furnishing. It was a large table, however, and lined with short black candles missing their metal basins leaving the pools of wax to harden on the aged linen.

“Welcome,” said the madame in an affected accent and she rose from her seat at the head of the table to grandiosely wave them to the seats. Miss Darkholme and McCoy wasted little time, securing the seats nearest the woman.

“Not quite what I anticipated,” murmured Charles, not hiding his condescension in the slightest.

“And yet you are convinced there is some creature that rises from the dead to consume human blood.” Erik whispered back. He clapped Charles’ shoulder and quietly took his seat beside McCoy.  
“I assure you that is rather different.” said Charles smartly as he seated himself across.

The woman’s servants brought out her materials; a wooden board --embossed with the letters of the alphabet, the numbers zero through nine, and at the top the words yes and no-- and a small circular cut of glass. Both objects were placed delicately before her.

“Before we begin, please, bow your heads with me in prayer.”

Erik watched as Miss Darkholme did so, a strand of her blond hair coming loose from her pins.

McCoy also joined, the candlelight painting him with shadows. Erik let his gaze return to Charles, who had laced his fingers and dipped his head, but he must have felt the stare for he lifted his head and mouthed _Just do it._ Unfortunate that Erik could still see the amused curl to Charles’ lips.  
Still, he bowed his head and let the woman pray. Once she finished she took up her glass and tilted her neck back to gaze upon ceiling.

“Are there spirits with us tonight?” she asked, holding the piece of glass to the board with two of her fingers at the edge. Slowly, haltingly it glided over the board until it at last reached the _yes_ and Miss Darkholme let out a gasp.

“How many of you are here?”

Again the glass slowly moved across the board, until it came to a rest. Charles shifted closer and read out the number: _One_

“Do you have a message for us?”

The only sounds in the room were that of the glass scraping against the board and their heavy breathing.

“Yes!” exclaimed McCoy, “It has a message for us.”

“Wait, wait,” cried Miss Darkholme, “are you a good spirit?”

The glass moved down and back up quickly and Miss Darkholme let out a relieved breath and an uneasy laugh. Charles took hold of her hand and placed a kiss on it, which further settled the young lady.

“Deliver your message unto us, oh spirit!”

The piece moved.

“E,” McCoy read, and that was followed by an _R_ then _I_ and their gazes all fell to Erik.

“K.” Charles said, “Erik?”

The piece continued to move.

_M_

_O_

_N_

The room was far too hot, the candles, the air, it was wrong. Erik clenched is jaw.

“S,” read Miss Darkholme.

And Erik knew the message. He stood up from the table, causing it to shake when his knees knocked against the underside. The chair squealed as it skid back. He did not need to stay for this message and he would not suffer it as he did night after night in his memories.

_Erik you monster!_

He could hear that Charles was the first to react, springing from his own chair and shouting after him.

“Mr. Lehnsherr, please,” he said, catching Erik in the hall, “it was a parlor trick, nothing more, whatever has upset you... it is not real.”

“I’ll not discuss this here,” was Erik flat response, “not in front of them.”

“All right,” and everything of Charles’ tone was placating, “we’ll take a hansom to your flat.”  
Erik had no desire to discuss the matter, but he was more than anxious to leave this house of broken remembrances.

“Fine.”

\---

Charles had never before visited Lehnsherr’s residence, not out of any reluctance on his part but due to the constraints placed upon him by his own callers -- Lehnsherr chief among them these days. He was curious, naturally so, as he observed the space. It was largely barren, no portrait or paintings on the walls and the only room approaching untidiness seemed to be the study, a sliver of the room visible and displaying a collection of scattered pens and papers and down turned books. Perhaps Lehnsherr had given similar instructions to those Charles left in regards to his study.

Though, it was bizarre to have not been greeted yet. Charles watched Lehnsherr, his foul mood still present in the abrupt manner with which he hung his hat and coat. Lehnsherr then thrust his out his had, and Charles blinked at it without comprehension.

“Your hat.”

“Oh,” Charles fumbled and hastened to give him the aforementioned. “Today seems a strange one to leave off the help.”

“I don’t keep servants.” said Lehnsherr tersely as he led Charles further inside.

“You don’t? Why on earth not?”

“Because I have no need of them. I can serve myself, I won’t force others to do what I am capable of doing.”

Charles frowned. “They are not forced; it is a living same as any other.”

“To go weeks without their families? Paid a pittance and never offered a word of thanks, barely a thought given to them until they have preformed ‘unsuitably’ and you think you do them a favor?”

Charles licked his lips. “Would it be better, then, to leave them without a job?”

Lehnsherr whorled to face him, brows furrowed inward and his eyes hard.

“Tell me, _Sir_ Charles, what percentage of your income is given to those who do more before you rise from bed than you in an entire day?”

Charles swallowed, for the moment unable to find suitable justification. Though, it was not as if he did nothing, he was an educated man, he made contributions to notable causes.

“That is an unfair assessment I --”

“You sit in your comfortable chairs feasting while families only miles away work from dusk until dawn for half of that. You sit and chat about the incidents in Cheapside with a detective inspector that makes jest of their fears.”

“You’ve said yourself there is no evidence--”

Lehnsherr’s lip curled in a sneer and he swiftly turned. “Leave.”

“Mr. Lehnsherr, please,” Charles said and reached for the man’s shoulder only for him to twist himself further away.

“Leave me be.” he repeated.

“I am sorry to have angered you, my friend.”

“What is it in your nature that makes my desire to be left alone so unfathomable to you? Is it that you think so well of yourself that your mere presence is a gift unto the rest of us?”

Charles pursed his lips and breathed in heavily through the nose, caught somewhere between hurt and anger. “I had imagined it to be because we were friends, but perhaps you hold resentment for me.”

“At times, yes.”

His heart stopped and grew heavy in his chest. A stone and a knot that attempted to both crawl up and sink down and so it failed and remained suspended painfully in the middle. Charles cleared his throat, opened his mouth, closed it and finally turned back towards the door. He collected his hat, and departed without so much as a second look.

June 8th, 1853

The moment the words had been given voice Erik had known them to be unjustly cruel, but he had uttered them and he could not pretend they had been without conviction. He did resent Charles at times, for his privileged lifestyle, for his ceaseless optimism –misplaced as it was- for his charm and his wit, but the root of the resentment remained that Erik cared for him more deeply than he ought; hardly a matter with which Charles should be held accountable.  

So, when the evening passed, and the following day as well without Charles making an appearance Erik knew he would be the one to extend the proverbial olive branch. As he dressed, he wondered if he might find an actual olive branch – he had no doubt the literal manifestation of his offering would amuse Charles and lead to a rousing discussion of how such a phrase had come into being – but decided against searching in favor of repairing the rift between them more quickly.

Regret hounded his footsteps as he briskly left his home. Charles had followed him out of concern, and Erik had repaid him with the most unkind words he could conceive. While lashing at himself internally, Erik hailed a hansom cab, having been fortuitous enough to happen upon an unoccupied one.

Erik rattled off the address, and the cabbie complied, traversing the distance with greater speed than Erik could without attracting the attentions of passersby, but even so, Erik found himself anxious to redress the injury he paid Charles. Which was why when the carriage rolled to a stop, Erik exited and handed the driver his due as swiftly as possible. It was with supreme effort that he climbed the steps at a pace approaching normal, and that he rapped on the door with only the barest hint of urgency.

He had arrived later in the day than this and received welcome, and Charles had made a point that Erik had a standing invitation so he assumed there would be an answer despite proper visiting hours ending near an hour ago. The itch to knock a second time had only just burgeoned, when the entryway opened to reveal one of Charles’ servants.

“I need to speak with Charles,” he said without waiting to be addressed.

“Sir Charles is not in, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

The information was slow to parse. Charles was always home at this hour, unless he was attending some event with Erik. Had Charles gone to a dinner without him? Erik found the possibility a remote one, considering the only dinners either of them attended were McCoy’s.

“Has he said where?”

The butler hesitated, and Erik hardened his features into a stormy countenance.

“ _Tell me.”_

“Sir Charles informed me that he was headed for Cheapside this morning.”

The very idea of Charles in Cheapside rankled, and the thought that he was to blame further rankled. He gave his thanks and with haste bounded down the steps and back towards the street, managing to find another hansom and nimbly seating himself. He realized what he had felt on the way to Charles’ temporary home was nothing compared to anxiety he felt now. Charles dressed as exorbitantly wealthy as he was made for an ideal target to less scrupulous individuals that plagued the streets. That Charles might discover his secret was barely a secondary concern.

With the advantage of retrospect, Erik arrived at the conclusion he should have expected this occurrence. Charles was not a man to step down from a challenge, and he was always quick to remedy any ill he felt he may be the cause of. Charles’ problem was not that he did not care, it was that he had not considered action might be necessary and Erik had foolishly disabused him of the notion that Scotland Yard would handle matters.

Now Charles was wandering through the worst of Cheapside, naively assuming that the people under the boot heel of the elite would not seek recompense in the form of, quite literally, returning the favor. The carriage slowed as the traffic grew thicker, as did the smell of people. It was without an overabundance of hope that Erik tried to suss out Charles’ scent among them.   
He could detect various types of edibles, and could match them to the shops they belonged, but he picked up no trace of Charles.

“Stop,” he told the driver after deciding his chances fared better on the streets than inside a vehicle. The man did so, and Erik passed him his coin and began to weave through the crowds in order to find Charles. His eyes scanned the veritable sea of faces, his ears listened for the familiar cadence, and his nostrils flared as he redoubled his efforts only to find nothing but a wealth strangers with indistinct voices overlapping one another.

Gradually the tide of people ebbed, partially due to the hour and partially due to the seediness of the area Erik now found himself, the part nearest to the slums. Seeing it in the last light of day rendered the slum nigh unrecognizable, though he still knew the structures to be the same dismal wooden domiciles he frequently passed in the night. With none of the faults obscured, the homes looked shabbier still. Rot and mildew visible and pungent.

The lone pub was the only building that could claim to be made of bricks, grimy and cracked rendering them more brown than red as it were, but it too was mostly comprised of wood. The jangle of makeshift instruments pierced the air as a door opened and out tumbled a man, narrowly missing Erik in the process, though the vampire’s attention was quite arrested by a familiar scent. It was more reaction than thought that had Erik catching the door before it could close; that smell could have only belonged to Charles.

Erik surveyed the smattering of patrons, groups of twos and threes hunched over musty tables, cracked and worn soft after years of use and lack of proper upkeep. His eyes alighted on Charles and it was a burden lifted. The young, though perhaps not so young now at the later edge of his twenties, baronet sequestered in the back - dressed not in his finery, but in dingy button up - and surrounded by several older men. Charles wore an intent expression on his flushed features as one of them spoke, and Erik could feel something in him twisting at the thought of Charles being impressed by that scrap of a man.

He entered the pub with purposeful strides, catching snatches of conversation.

“ --an’ ya look in its eyes an’ it’s over. You can’t move, or speak, you’re helpless and then it kills ya.”

“No, that’s not—“

All eyes fall to him, but Charles’ are the pair he cares to meet. To his pleasure, he finds a mirrored joy and not malice or hurt.

“Gentlemen this,” and the words are slightly slurred, and the pace of them is slower than is customary of Charles, “this is my good friend, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

The three other men settle, some, but Erik can tell they are wary of him yet. He made no attempt to allay their concern.

“May I speak privately with you?” He asked, drawing out a nod from Charles, followed by an unsteady rise and lurch from seated to standing, though the man navigated around the table without incident. Erik could now note that the trousers were equally drab, and well suited to the scene. He had altogether forgotten that chief among Charles’ traits were that he was spectacularly clever, and exceptionally charming when he so chose, and naturally he would choose to blend in.

They found a table, and without preamble Erik launched into his reprimand: “I did not mean you should pay visit to Cheapside asking the local color for stories, Charles.”

“Then what did you mean?”

The question was markedly sober, and edging close to bitter, though Erik could not fathom why his concern should bring about hostility. Or perhaps he was only forgiven for his inflammatory comments so long as they went unacknowledged.

“I was angry, Charles,” he said. He found himself unable to apologize and swallow back the words.   
Charles licked his lips, and Erik found himself transfixed on the quick in an out darting of that pink muscle. It was habit both loved and loathed.

“I don’t know why it bothers you so,” said Charles after considerable silence.

“It isn’t safe.”

Charles’ brow furrowed, and Erik knew it to broker an argument so he braced himself accordingly while he waited for Charles to posit his grievances.

“For all your talk of the poor and the wealthy being equals, you seem to think them savages.”

“Only because we’ve made them such, and if you think the wealthy are not equally savage in a different manner then allow me to educate you, because humans are savages and I will not see you hurt.”

Charles seemed to deflate, and sorrow encompassed the whole of his being from his down cast eyes to the slump of his shoulders and Erik found himself greatly unsettled.

“I have no need of that lesson, my friend,” said Charles, the distance in his voice suggested an event recalled. Erik found he didn’t much care for that look, and was further burdened by the realization he had no inkling as to what remembrance Charles might be lost in.

“Charles?” he asked and leaned in. The spluttering lantern on the table cast more shadows than light across his friend’s features, but Erik had spent enough time with him to know every line and contour besides. He could smell ale, sharp and effusive, and knew enough had been consumed to cloud Charles’ judgment; perhaps the sudden melancholy could be pinned on that.

“Nothing, my friend,” said Charles, a clever smile at his lips. “I do believe it is late enough that my departure should not rouse suspicion.”

Erik frowned in consternation. It was an-- well Erik found himself altogether unsure of this particular habit of Charles: to deflect by placating or acceding to demands. He did enjoy Charles doing what he wanted, but Erik did not appreciate it at the expense of something else. After momentary deliberation he rose, as did Charles, and made for the exit.

Their progress was halted by a languid drawl.

“You still wanna know what I saw?”

Charles attention pivoted towards the back, and Erik followed it to the man – barrel-chested and unkempt– seated alone at a table. Every sinew within Erik coiled and bunched. It was the same man that had sighted him less than a fortnight ago. The fear of discovery was not so secondary now; now it perched uncomfortably close, couching itself in the corners of Erik’s mind and spreading like viscous oil.

“Of course,” agreed Charles, untempered enthusiasm shining through.

“Meet me here tomorrow, and you’re paying.” He looked Erik up and down, and then turned back to his glass without another word. Erik’s chest loosened, though the anxiousness remained entrenched, even as they stepped out into the evening.

“My guess is that in seeing you he now believes I can afford it,” Charles said, and drawing Erik from his concerns.

“All the more reason I should be in attendance.”

“You intend to join me?”

Erik paid him a look of utmost skepticism so that he might know how foolish and absurd the question was.

Charles smiled gamely.


	4. Chapter Four

June 9th 1853

The pub was actually charming, in an understated fashion, Charles mused. Better suited to raucous drinking and spinning tales, at the very least. The iron welding suspended from the rafters and outfitted with candles twice as thick as his arm was not so luminous as the chandilers he was more accustomed to, but the light was certainly warmer than that refracted by manifold cuts of glass.

Though, a larger table would have been nice. It did manage to seat the three off them, but only just. And Logan, as he preferred to be called, had secured most of the rounded little table for his numerous drinks.

“I didn’t see much of him, like I said, it was dark, but he was tall -- normal looking. Wouldn’t have given him a second thought if I hadn’t seen him crouch down over the other guy. Guy let out a scream, but only the one. I shouted at the, uh, I guess we’re calling him a ‘vampire,’ and he took off. So, I went over to the other guy, found out his name was Mortimer Toynbee, something, and sure enough he’s got these two,” here Logan held up two fingers, curling them slightly and spacing them apart before reaching over to tap them to Charles throat.

Lehnsherr’s hand was wrapped about Logan’s wrist in what seemed to be a fraction of time.

“Hey, bub,” growled Logan, and he jerked his hand away with a deep scowl.

“Please, do go on,” Charles injected in the hopes of circumventing an argument. He nudged Lehnsherr’s foot under the table.

“Right, the guy has a bite mark. Like a snake got him.”

“Does he live here? Would we be able to speak with him?” asked Charles eagerly. Logan rolled his shoulders back and took a drag from his cigar.

“I’ve seen him around the docks, usually trying to swipe something.

“Thank you,” said Charles.

“Yeah, thanks for the drinks and,” he raised his cigar, a curl of smoke following the motion.  
Charles looked to Lehnsherr, “Shall we go, sir?”

Perhaps he was enjoying it a bit more than he ought, but it was the same pub Lehnsherr had found him in the evening before and it would have been quite strange indeed to have him return in worse attire.

Lehnsherr rose from the table, leaving a few more gunina than was necessary. Once they were outside the eatery and safely enclosed in a hansom, Lehnsherr asked, “Do you believe him?”

“I’d like to see the wound myself, but, yes, I do. I’ve come to the conclusion that this vampire may not be a malevolent force. If you notice, he has not once killed his victims, and, perhaps, has some... method of healing. This Mortimer Toynbee character is the only one said to have visible injury, possibly because Logan prevented him from employing whatever technique he utilizes.”

“You truly believe that?”

“Almost without a doubt. Varney certainly did not enjoy drinking blood, but still he was compelled.”  
Lehnsherr stared at his hands with complete absorption, which naturally stoked concern in Charles.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, Charles.”

The distance in Lehnsherr’s tone did very little to assuage his worries as the carriage plodded along the earthen roads. It was quiet for a time, before Lehnsherr spoke again.

“I do not feel we should see this business through. You have determined for yourself he means no harm, why then should we pursue him?”

“To understand, of course. Aren’t you curious? Perhaps we can even be of assistance, convince him to cease his attacks on residents here. I thought you might appreciate that sentiment, but if you wish to leave off, I assure you I will be fine.”

Charles made no mention that should he find this vampire he had every intention of offering his own blood. He knew the vampire could abstain from killing his victims, so perhaps he could serve as a voluntary source of blood. Considering how troubled Lehnsherr already seemed to be, he could guess his friend would find the idea disagreeable.

“There is nothing that might induce you to leave the matter be?” asked Lehnsherr plaintively, of all things.

“I confess I do not know why this distresses you so, I am only attempting to help.”

“Charles, I withdraw my words, you are not an ounce of what I claimed you to be that night, now please let this vampire alone.”

The carriage slowed to a halt and Charles studied the lines of worry etched in Lehnsherr’s countenance. He gripped the door latch and leaned forward.

“110 Gloucester Avenue, please,”

Lehnsherr let out a breath and Charles made swift work of opening the door and jumping down from the hansom as it pulled away. The landing had been significantly less graceful than the one Charles had aspired to, but he reasoned that more dirt did little to lessen his pretense.

The docks were quiet, only a handful of ship in the process of being unloaded, largely by men with nearly a foot on Charles and several stone besides. If they noticed him picking his way through then they paid him no mind.

“Charles,” was spoken with great restraint on Lehnsherr’s part, which only garnered a smirk from him.

“You decided to join me then, how wonderful.”

“Let’s find him so that you may ask your questions and be done.”

They went to the dock workers and in short order were pointed in the right direction. They found him, and discovered that Mr. Toynbee was not an attractive man, and he smelled something awful, but he was agreeable enough to answer Charles’ questions for a few guinea.

Unfortunately, he offered no new information, only the bite mark. It was enough to go on, Charles supposed. They could start afresh tomorrow.  
  


June 17th, 1853

It was Erik’s habit to travel closer to the evening hours and Charles would not force the vice from him when he could so easily adjust his own habits to match. In years past, he had found it a struggle since his front parlor was beset by the comings and goings of callers. This season, however, the number of visitors was considerably smaller, dwindling down to a meager one or two excluding Erik’s near daily visits and the occasional on from his foster sister.

Charles had given it growing consideration now that he was unable to convince himself that it circumstantial. He had been in town for months, so it was not that his presence was unknown, and his acquaintances could not be so constrained that they were completely unable to make calls. Were it not for the distraction of Erik’s calls, ones that with regularity extended into the less conscionable hours, Charles might have made more of an endeavour to uncover the reason. Perhaps when he was not so preoccupied, for at the moment this vampire business had his full attention.

As such, it was to his great surprise that the knock upon his door at half-past four was _not_ Erik with a hansom cab waiting for their excursion to Cheapside.

“Miss Kin--,” he sucked in a breath and corrected himself, she had married while he was away, “Mrs. MacTaggert.”

“Hello, Sir Charles,” she answered. Curiosity touched upon her features and Charles glanced down so that he might observe whatever she had seen. Perhaps it was something of a curiosity, a baronet dressed in a yellowed button-up and a poorly sewn vest-both the wrong size- and answering his own door instead of someone in his employ. Ink spots were not so uncommon when he was buried in his desultory studies, but faded and moth-eaten...

He huffed a laugh. “I was about to head--”

“To Cheapside, I’d heard. With Mr. Lehnsherr.” Her tone was flat, but her words sounded chopped, almost curt. There was no warmth in her countenance either, which was baffling.

“Heard from whom?”

“A number of people, I thought you should know; there’s been a lot of speculation about you and your intimacy with Mr. Lehnsherr. None of it good.”

Charles swallowed, suddenly parched. “We’ve been making inquiries about those bite victims. My interest in the matter has not been hidden.”

“You are not a detective.”

“Because we all know what a shining beacon Detective Inspector MacTaggert has been to them,” he replied, not as sardonically as he could have, but it did cause Mrs. MacTaggert to exhale through the nose.

“Sir Charles, I came to warn you before you find yourself under investigation.” Her words cutting through the layers of gentility and delicacy to reach the heart of the matter. “There is talk; everyone has taken notice of the late hours and your strange clothes. And just how many letters do you send him while you are back in Oxford?”

“He is my dearest friend--”

“Stop. I have no desire to hear your reasons,” she interjected, then her expression softened and she continued with a kinder inflection, “I said I had come to warn you, and now I have. All I ask, Sir Charles, is that you be careful.”

Charles watched as she turned and climbed down the steps to join her valet, a mirror of Erik stepping down from his hansom.

Charles followed after her. If he was rumored a sodomite and inquiry made and she was found abetting, even in such a subtle way, it was more than her reputation at stake.

“Why?” He asked to her back, he was grateful when she turned. She wore a smile as though she were amused by the question, but there was great sorrow in her eyes.

“You don’t know?” she asked, “You didn’t know that if you had asked for my hand I would have happily given it to you?”

Charles felt his heart turn to stone and found he could formulate neither thought nor phrase as the meaning pressed upon him from all sides. He hardly noticed Erik’s arrival beside him.

“Sir Charles?” Erik asked, his low regard towards Mrs. MacTaggert evident for he doubtlessly blamed her.

“I am fine, my friend,” he said, and then re-affixed his attention on her, “Thank you, and... I am sorry.”

Erik’s confusion was obvious, but ignored for the moment. Mrs. MacTaggert smiled, wistful and resigned and achingly beautiful. “Goodbye, Charles.”

“Goodbye... Moira.”

He lingered as her deep green skirts disappeared into the sea of other fine fabrics.

“Has your mind been changed?” asked Erik, “Shall we stay in?”

But Charles felt sick at being confronted by the very reason he was currently ostracized. He felt sick as he watched familiar faces passing with not even a nod, as any attempt to meet someone’s eyes had them averting theirs swiftly and with the same natural effortlessness that water flowed.

How had he not noticed?

Finally he met Erik’s eyes, their mercurial green fraught with uncertainty and concern, and the answer was abundantly clear as to how he had been oblivious for such a long time.

“We should leave, before it grows dark,” Charles told him and headed for the hansom, Erik just behind. He climbed the step, keenly aware of Erik’s hand on his waist - to steady him no doubt.  
  


June 20th, 1855

Erik offered Charles a hand to assist him off the table as he took a final swig of ale. There was a ruddiness to his face that could have been brought about by the excitement of out drinking another patron, or more likely, the sign that he had perhaps consumed enough for the evening.

“You seem unnaturally skilled at making friends,” said Erik, forced to whisper in Charles ear by the out pour of chants and cheers.

Charles laughed, brash and uncouth but entirely honest. “That is only because you are so very unskilled.” He pulled at the collar of his shirt, “Cor blimey, it’s hot.”

Erik found his gaze drawn to the movement and he swiftly tore it away, focusing again on Charles’ flushed face.

“Shall we take our leave, then?”

“No,” said Charles, and pressed his emptied mug to Erik’s chest, “I heard that the vampire last bit a Mr. Hyatt, we have to ask him about that night.”

“We can do so tomorrow. It’s a quarter past ten, Mr. Hyatt is all too likely preparing for bed.”

“Oh,” said Charles, no doubt finding the time a surprise, “very well then. On the morrow.”

Erik offered his arm to steady Charles and to guide him out of the pub. It was dark, but the lamps were lit and it was more than what Erik needed in order to see. The night air certainly did Charles some good, robbing some of the redness from his face; still his arm remained around Erik’s for assured balance.

They walked for a time, and Erik could not remember what he’d said, but whatever it had been earned a laugh that Charles was fighting to contain. He was fond of that laugh, and something in him rather enjoyed being the cause of the laugh lines taking shape.

The laughter died away when three figures began to move from out of the shadows.

“The pair of you are awful chummy. I’ve seen you takin’ ‘im home e’ery night, it makes a bloke wonder. A gent like yourself wit a rat on the streets.” said the shortest of them. His clothes were tattered, just as the other two, but he seemed to have more layers and fewer patches.

“He is staying with me until he can afford a place of his own,” Erik said carefully, “not that it is of your concern.”

“I disagree,” the first man continued, taking a few steps closer and flanked by the taller men, “see, a man has a duty. To Queen and Country, and looks to me and mine that you two are buggers.”

Charles stepped away and held out his palms. “I assure you that we are not, it is as he said. We’re cousins, and he has been attempting to aid me in finding work.”

The short man shook his head and stepped into Charles space.

“I know what I seen, and I’ve seen the of ya lookin’ at each other and it ain’t a bit decent.”

The other two moved in closer, and Erik knew it hardly mattered what they said. These men would not be satisfied until they drew blood. The bearded man threw the first punch, which Erik caught by the fist. He could crush the tiny bones, but that would indubitably prompt questions he was not yet prepared to answer.

A sharp cry followed by a grotesque chuckle arrested Erik’s attention and his head swiveled to catch a glint of metal. A knife. Charles.

Erik crushed the balled fist and with his other hand gripped the man’s head and pulled it back until it snapped. He shoved the body into the third man --who dropped it and fled-- as he went for the short one. A base part of him enjoyed the wide eyed expression, and he wrested the knife from the man.

He forced the scent of Charles blood out of his mind long enough to plunge the knife down his throat, ripping it out sideways and before the man could react he lodged the blade into whatever twisted thing he dared call a heart.

“Mr. Lehnsherr...” it sounded weak and wet, and in an instant Erik was at Charles’ side, his eyes unable to see past the dark crimison color blooming across the linen shirt. Oh, the smell of it was so sweet, so rich and horrifying. Charles coughed and more of it splattered.

Erik felt Charles falling and so he guided him down as gently as was possible, cradling him carefully in his arms.

“You...”

“Don’t,” warned Erik. He ripped the shirt open and found the wound, the thing only an inch across, so small for so much blood. He leaned down to swipe it with his tongue, the taste unbearably decadent, exactly as he had refused to imagine. He laved over the injury until it closed, and then he forced himself to draw back trembling.

Charles let out another hacking cough and more blood spattered.

“No,” Erik said, “no, Charles! No!”

Charles was choking on it, with half his chest rising with each gasping, spluttering breath. Erik could hardly hear the beat of his heart, an uneven staccato in place of the steady rhythm. No. He couldn’t lose him, not like this, not to men like that.

“I... I’m sorry,” Charles murmured, pinkish fluid spilling out and garbling the words.

“No,” Erik repeated, firmer. He would not lose Charles. He refused to.

“This may hurt,” he warned only scant seconds prior to letting his fangs descend and leaning down. His mouth hovered over Charles neck, his resolve flagging for a moment, and the he bit, his teeth sinking in.

Charles gasped, but then tilted his neck to allow Erik access. Erik had to suck hard in order to direct the flow of blood from elsewhere, and he was quick to pull away when he’d had enough.

He bit into his forearm and swiftly brought it to Charles mouth.

“Drink,” he instructed, and when Charles struggled, “ _Drink_.”

Blessedly, Charles began to, at first lapping at the blood and then latching on and drinking thirstily, his throat bobbing with each swallow

“Yes,” Erik whispered, “oh, yes.”

He bade Charles to continue for some minutes before he pulled his arm back. He was then riveted by the sight of Charles licking at the last traces of blood on his lips. Erik’s gaze panned upwards to glassy eyes and at once the weight of what he’d done pressed upon him.

But Charles was alive.

The rest no longer mattered.

\---

Erik made quick work of summoning a carriage; enthralling the driver into parting with it for a number of florins. Carefully he placed an unconscious Charles inside, nestling him under his coat and drawing the curtains closed with their braided fastenings.

Erik pushed the horses on into the morning, riding out into Oxford --the only sanctuary he could conceive of-- while Charles slept and regained strength. In the early hours of the morning he reached the ancestral home. He knew it for its unparalleled size and the crest that was also found on the seal of Charles’ letters.

The estate was empty, with Charles’ servants either away or at his residence in London. It suited Erik, who would not need to explain why he kept Charles covered, leaving not an ounce of skin to be seen as he entered.

He wandered the halls, as wide as some of the rooms in Erik’s home and with a higher ceiling to compound the effect, until he stumbled at last on a bedroom. He laid Charles carefully on the bed and immediately closed the drapes to ensure no sunlight would find its way through.


	5. Chapter Five

Oxford, England  
June 21st, 1853

When the hours passed with no perilous sign that Charles would not recover, Erik allowed himself a reprieve from his vigil, though he did not dare leave the room even with the curtains drawn tight. He instead slept in the plush armchair which had been dragged to the canopied bedside. It was far from the most comfortable of arrangements, but Erik could feel nothing but gratitude since it made anything other than a light sleep an impossibility -- which was why he was pulled awake by the soft tread of feet on the intricately patterned rug.

His eyelids lifted and his stiff muscles shifted as he began to decipher the room in colorless shades ranging from white to black.

Erik’s pulse caught when he sighted Charles beside the casement windows.

The chair was bowled over backwards by the force and speed with which Erik threw himself from the seat, but even so he could not prevent Charles’ fingers from curling around the cloth and catching sunlight.  
A sharp howl broke from Charles’ lips and he drew back, inadvertently flinging the curtain back just as Erik reached him and gripped his shoulders to pull him aside. He had not been able to spare Charles from scalded fingers, but the newly unveiled sliver of sunlight had blessedly not touched anymore of his skin.

Erik closed the curtains once more and fixed his attentions on Charles, presently cradling his right hand. Even in the gloom Erik could see the forming discoloration of his fingers, mottling in blackish patches.

“Erik...” said Charles, a search for answers in his voice, and Erik was unsure how to provide them.

“I’ll fetch a lantern,” he said and did so, lighting it and flinching at the suddenness though the thing was not overly bright. Still it allowed for the suggestion of color; a hint of redness to Charles’ lips and a trace of deep blue to his dressing-gown.

“Erik,” and Charles seemed to grapple with his thoughts, his mouth parting and pursing until he wrangled out a question: “What have you done?”

Erik found himself unable to answer, the weight of it, the intertwined remorse and rapture clogging his mind and twisting the words before he could even give them form. Charles was a vampire. Charles was kindred. He was no longer alone.

“Is it so terrible to be alive?”

Charles gave no indication that he heard the query. “It was you, Erik, the entire time... you’re the vampire of London.”

Remorse and rapture gave way to a defensive anger, his mouth forming a harsh line though he did his utmost to convey impassivity.

“I am,” was said sternly.

The admission had Charles gaping, his elongated cuspids catching the firelight and quickening Erik’s pulse. They were beautiful and suited Charles immensely, a keen reminder that Charles could not deem him a monster without also condemning himself. Erik was not entirely soothed, but he embraced the consolation.

“And you killed those men...”

“I did,” he said without remorse. He would not feel it nor its like for those men. Not ever.

Erik could hear Charles’ heart, no longer the weak flutter of the previous night, but loud and fast and possessing a similar conveyance of fragility and fear. And a more exact similarity to another heartbeat; one from a woman he loved, on a far away night,  in a cabin he built. Erik clenched his jaw, and hardened his heart.

“They intended to do the same to us.”

“You could have stopped them,” asserted Charles.

“I did stop them.”

“No Erik, you murdered them outright, you did not have to kill them, you could have stopped them without slaughtering them!”

“And allow them to murder someone else?”

Charles fell silent to that, and Erik caught him thumbing his nightshirt where the dagger had been thrust. Quiet, but not peace, descended over them. The only sounds were the steadying beat of Charles’ heart and the swinging pendulum of the tall wooden clock tucked in the corner.

Charles averted his eyes and Erik’s followed them to the seared flesh of his hand.

“Here,” said Erik, setting the lantern on the floor and bringing his thumb and two of his fingers to his mouth. He dabbed them with saliva before gently massaging the injury; due care paid to each digit. That Charles did not withdrawal from his ministrations rekindled some hope.

That Charles remained silent dashed it.

The stillness reigned for minutes that stretched; until the pale hue returned to Charles’ skin and Erik had lit the candles spread throughout the room. It was at least more illumination than there had been.

“You changed me.” The words were spoken with some likeness to a question and some likeness to an accusation.

Erik turned, and regarded his friend, a term he realized may no longer apply. It brought a terrible agony upon him that Charles might feel hatred, the same hatred Erik had felt at his own sire.

“Only to save you, believe that.”

A half-sob, masked by a facsimile of laughter came from Charles’ throat. “Can I? All these years and you never told me.”

“I couldn’t.” Erik said simply.

“Do I know anything of you?”

Charles did earnest very well, his every feature painted with that mixture of pain and desperate curiosity. Erik grew incensed, and unable to bear the thought that Charles would walk out of his life as easily as he had stepped in.

“You know everything of me! Tell me, Charles, how have I changed? In what manner has my character deceived you? I am that same man that you have spent these past years with. If your only quarrel is that I did not inform you, let it pass for I have told you now!”

Erik watched as a sad sort of coldness took over Charles, soft faced still, but something in his eyes or the slant of his mouth gave the impression that he was far from swayed.

“Yes, you tell me now, now when you could have done so at anytime and prevented me from turning into--”

“Into a _monster_?”

Anger seized him and at once the urge to throttle Charles came upon him, not to end his life but to hurt him, to make him take back the words. When Charles did not respond, Erik found himself unable to let the matter drop.

“And still you ask me why I did not tell you.”

“You changed me into something I’m not prepared to be, you took away my choice.”

“Took away your choice? No, Charles, I gave you one. If this existence is so monstrous, and so immoral, then all you need is to stand before that window again.” Erik waited, and when no move was made he felt emboldened. “Go ahead, Charles, if you are so morally superior.”

“I...” Charles faltered, eyes flicking between the window and Erik. He wouldn’t, Erik could tell. Charles had a healthy love of self, and while he was at times reckless, it was never in such a way that could be construed as self-destructive.

“I should like to be alone,” he uttered. Quiet and deathly cold.

Erik hesitated, but made to leave, though not before giving Charles something else to consider.

“I thought I was a monster once, and then I realized... I’m just a stronger breed.”

\---

Charles sat in the quiet of his makeshift room with his eyes on the window, closed to him for some indeterminate interval of time. It was difficult to not feel the loss, even if had never believed himself the nature-type. The thought that he could not do something was never one he was entirely comfortable with, and it was a bitter kind of sweet that being a vampire did not change that.

Truthfully, he did not feel very different. Physically, perhaps, the elongated cuspids were certainly new, but even now he hardly felt them. Though, his tongue still probed at them, sliding along each carefully and finding them quite sharp. Charles still felt very much _himself,_ he was in full possession of his memory save the previous night was blurred, and his emotional responses did not seem dissonant.

He could still manage to say the absolute wrong thing to someone. Charles frowned. He had not honestly felt Lehnsherr a monster, the word had tumbled out in regards to himself and he had failed to consider that Lehnsherr was the same... creature. Entity? He huffed in the low candlelight. He had failed to consider that Lehnsherr was also a vampire.

For that was what Charles was now, and it was best to not dance round the issue. He did not wish to perish, even if he would have to do as hateful a deed as consume blood. He knew this of himself now, but, it was quite possibly vampiric influence. Perhaps as a human he would have chosen death. It was not as though Lehnsherr had consulted him on the matter.

Round and round Charles’ thoughts went, nuanced with despair and surliness, until Charles could no longer bear his own company. He rose from the bed and padded his way across the room, he pulled open the door latch and was more than startled to find Lehnsherr starring at him from the other side of the hall.  
Lehnsherr seemed far less angry, his eyes wide and looking Charles up and down. Charles swallowed, and steeled himself.

“I want to know everything.”

Lehnsherr nodded his head once, and Charles stepped back from the doorway to allow him entrance.

“I’d like you to start with why you couldn’t tell me when I made my thoughts clear.”

Lehnsherr rubbed at the line of his jaw. “A number of things. But, I did not wish you to think me some wretched thing that needed your help.”

Charles found he had little to say in response to that. Eventually he reasoned, “You could have explained that to me as well. I would have understood.”

“Then because I was afraid. I did not believe you could be so accepting.”

Charles scoffed. “I was... I am your friend. Of course I would have accepted you.”  
Lehnsherr turned his face and fixated on some distant point on the masonry. “My wife did not. I had no reason to believe that you would remain when even the woman who professed to love me would not.”

“I... I am so sorry. I--”

“Save your pity, it was a very long time ago.”

Charles could have argued that it clearly still affected Lehnsherr, but he had no desire to needle an old wound. It was difficult to find anger after that, and so he sat down and listened quietly as Lehnsherr explained every sordid detail of his life. He imparted to Charles every ounce of self-loathing he had experienced and forced back. He told him everything.

“And then I met you.”

Charles did not know what say, so he wisely refrained.

“What will you do?” asked Lehnsherr, and Charles understood the real question, the one hidden underneath.

_Will you take your life?_

“I don’t know.”  
  


July 1st, 1853

In the preceding days Charles had done little more than sleep, Erik had been willing to believe it was a product of exhaustion and a shifting in his internal clock. Charles had at least managed to send a missive to his foster sister, conveying to her that he had taken ill rather suddenly and that a physician of repute had advised him to return to cleaner air so she needn’t worry herself or cut short her stay in the city.

Erik mused if she ignored the instructions and boarded a train for Oxford their pretense would not fall to shambles for Charles certainly appeared ill. His skin was a shade lighter than even porcelain and his eyes were more lackluster than Erik could recall observing. At once he recognized the symptoms.  
Charles needed to feed.

“Come with me,” Erik said, some hours after the sun had gone down.

“Where?” asked Charles as he looked up from his book. Erik crossed the room and pulled the volume from his hands and set it gently on the night table.

“Just come, please.”

Charles gave him a surly look, but nevertheless drew himself out of bed and motioned for Erik to leave so that he might dress himself. Erik complied, venturing back into the hall and waiting. It was not a terribly long wait, and swiftly he led Charles into the balmy night.

“You need to hunt,” he explained. He stopped when he sensed no other movement.

Charles’ throat visibly constricted, warping his voice in something on the precipice of shrill, “No, I’m quite all right.”

“Charles.”

Silence save the chirp of crickets and occasional flap of wings.

“I can’t,” Charles admitted finally, “I can’t assault some poor chap I’ve not even met.”

Erik had feared this.

“You have to, and it will only hurt them for a moment.”

Charles averted his gaze and shifted his weight while wearing an expression of acute discomfort. Erik grimaced.

“Would you be more comfortable if I showed you?” he asked.

“What?”

Charles eyes were on him once more.

“I could show you that it doesn’t hurt. I’ll bite you, and then you can bite me so that you may know what it’s like.” Erik answered as though it was the simplest solution in all the world. Possibly it was.

Charles seemed to mull it over, but he did eventually undo his collar to expose his neck. Erik smiled and stepped neatly into Charles space, lining their bodies parallel to one another. A unique interplay of emotions went through him as he leaned down; hunger, anticipation, longing, and trepidation all warred for preeminence.

He inhaled deeply and ghosted his mouth over the flesh. Charles shivered.

“Are you going--”

Erik chose that moment to bite. Teeth penetrating quickly, and a sudden burst of flavor touched his tongue. He felt Charles head loll back and tried to ignore the perverse wash of pleasure.  
He pulled back and allowed Charles time to recover his senses.

“Oh,” he said shakily.

Erik hummed in agreement and loosened his own collar. “Go ahead, Charles, try it yourself.”

There was greater hesitation on Charles part, as he leaned down with his mouth only a hair’s breadth away for an agonizing length of time. Erik had little idea what it felt like, he only knew that those he bit never found it disagreeable until after the fact.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

He felt a warm rush of air and then twin pin pricks that had him gasp. And then... _Oh. Perfection._ He tilted his head back, feeling pleasantly warm. His blood swirled as it rushed, leaving him tingling from the inside with only the soft, wet press of lips to ground him.

Charles jerked back, shaking and breathing heavily, fangs still descended as he panted. He looked stunning and Erik found that in the cobbled mess of emotions, longing had won.

July 3rd, 1853

“So... you simply push your will at the person?” asked Charles skeptically. Though he supposed he should not be so swift to judge with things as they were. He moved his rook five spaces to the right to prevent Lehnsherr’s queen from taking it.

“It is the best explanation I can offer.” Lehnsherr responded and seized the rook with his bishop.

“How difficult is it, and,” Charles positioned his knight, “check.”

Lehnsherr moved his king to safety and then answered, “It varies.” His expression lent itself to the interpretation that he had more to say and so Charles waited it out.

“I confess I did it to you, without meaning to.”

Charles sat up.

“You did? When?”

Lehnsherr stared at the board and would not meet Charles eyes.

“That night, with the rain. I... made you say things...” he paused to collect himself and at last looked up, “I have regretted it immensely.”

Charles was stunned for a moment, and then he laughed, his shoulders quivering with mirth. “Oh, my dear friend, I’m afraid that wasn’t you. I thought, well, I rather imagined you had the same tastes I have.”

“You mean...?”

“Yes. Unless you somehow enthralled me before having met me. I confess I was quite taken with you when met, and over the years...”

“Yes. I mean, I have felt the same, but I thought, I thought I had forced the feeling onto you...”

“And I thought you weren’t interested.”

Charles sat back and tried to process the new information, while Lehnsherr seemed to do the same. That same tiny piece of hope unfurled in his chest and he forced his breathing to be even.

“We would be hanged.”

As thought they weren’t already in danger of it, being what they were.

“I can keep a secret.”


End file.
